


My Dearest

by Ingoma



Category: Hermitcraft
Genre: Brief mentions of abuse and harm, Brief mentions of medicine, Brief mentions of war, Captivity, F/M, Love, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ingoma/pseuds/Ingoma
Summary: With a stroke of his quill, he writes a letter.With many strokes, he crafts a letter.
Relationships: Joe Hills/ZombieCleo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	My Dearest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PawPunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PawPunk/gifts), [cubfanfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cubfanfiction/gifts).



> Thank you to Calcium Rods for helping me brainstorm the concept.
> 
> Thank you to PawPunk for encouraging me to get off my butt and write some Jleo! ^-^

_ Dear Cleo, _

No, that’s not good enough.

_ My dear Cleo, _

He chewed the tip of his quill, a terrible habit, really, considering how annoying whittling down a feather could be in the middle of writing, and this was his last quill he had pre-prepared. Did he even have another spare feather?

_ My dearest Cleo, _

What folly to call her his dearest Cleo, alone. He didn’t know of any other Cleo’s, though he assumed that none could ever quite match up to the women he loved. Yet, what if Cleo misconstrued that idea, what if she assumed that he had found one more dear to him then her? He took the quill out of his mouth once more to add a simple stroke after the ‘dearest’.

_ My dearest, Cleo, _

Perfect.

_ It has been many days since my last letter, _

Too weak.

_ It has been too long since our last correspondence. How I have missed your lovely gaze- _

No. He was coming on too strong. He shouldn’t show how much he missed her. What could he describe that would be acceptable? Her ferocious beauty? Her cunning wit? Her devotion? 

_ How I have missed seeing you, and listening to your voice. I’ve been waiting for a response for the last letter I sent still, but I’ve been assured it should arrive soon. Wandering traders and their delays! Not that I am not eternally indebted for all that they have done for us. _

He paused and reread the last two sentences. Was this too dangerous? He knew that his captors were well aware that he snuck letters out, but it would be woe of him to reveal how. They didn’t seem much inclined to dig into his small attempts at private correspondence so long as he minded his manners, but he had received a few letters that suspiciously did not carry the pungent odor of zombie flesh, implying, of course, that they had been opened and read, either by the village, or by a curious wandering trader. Whichever way it went, it was still less then ideal. But what could he do?

_ In your last letter, you inquired about my health. I can assure you that I am doing well. The harvest has been bountiful this year, bless the devs, and I have received more then my standard portion. Last night, I even enjoyed a rare piece of chicken, truly a treat compared to the usual beetroot and carrots. I have been thinking about asking for permission to hunt down a rabbit, oh how I have missed a delectable rabbit stew, but I feel they would be averse to me holding a proper weapon, regardless of how bad I am at swordfighting. It took them several months before they even let me whittle my own quills with this small knife, although I won’t bore you by repeating the details once more. _

Joe bit his lip and glanced out the window to the heavens above. The sun was beautiful in its creep below the horizon, with the mostly cloudless sky. The red sky was a good omen in these troubled times, and he was content with idly watching the sunset as he reflected upon the events of his past week. 

_ The village children are doing well. The twins know nothing but trouble, and the villagers have been grumpy about it. A recent scheme of theirs involved dying potatoes red with poppies, to force their parents to let them eat cake for dinner. I, of course, deny any involvement in these dastardly plans. How am I supposed to have gathered a fourth stack of poppies? It would be irresponsible of me to encourage young felons, and you know how irresponsible I am. The teen sends their regards, they happened upon one of my more romantic poems and have been pestering me for details of you ever since! _

The teen was the oldest of the villager children. Joe avoided naming names in his letters, in case his location was tracked. The children did not deserve to be harmed for the crimes of their elders. 

_ The youngest one, I feel, has been the most difficult to take care of. Their insistence on not consuming their bread has been irritating, especially when I am the one tasked with taking care of them, as is usual these days. The village wanted a poet and received a caretaker. I don’t mind the extra labor, or, labour to translate into your tongue. I feel like I am the happiest I have been in the months I have stayed here. _

What he didn’t add was his worry over this. Joe didn’t think himself to be too intelligent of a player, but his growing contentment with his relative captivity troubled him. He had heard rumors of a syndrome named after the legendary home of the devs. He feared falling prey to its grip. Every day he spent, living life as a captive in a foreign land, felt more and more of the norm. What had happened to his carefree heart, to his urge to wander? It had been ripped away like his freedom, and was walking, slowly and steadily, farther away from his fingertips.

_ I wish-- _

No.

_ Please, hurry-- _

Too obvious. Cleo had problems of her own. If she could just leave, Joe knew she would have. It was hidden behind her quick scribbled words, the scraps of paper she clearly saved just to write to him. Her occasional vagueness such as Joe’s own. He switched tracks entirely.

_ The rest of the village is doing well. I have been encouraged to write more in between daycare duties. The elders of the village are talking among themselves of selling my work to produce more emeralds and wealth for the village. Thanks to the fame I unfortunately achieved among the villages, it would be a lucrative venture for them to embark on. I worry that they might dig in and search for my journals. I have had enough of my work disposed of on accident... _

Joe had to suppress a laugh. 

_...that I fear them throwing out more. Supposedly, seditious sublime strokes lead to different strokes.  _

This time, Joe couldn’t help the chuckle that emerged from his lips. While they rarely resorted to physical harm, a few of the more bellicose villagers enjoyed threatening it when Joe was less than cooperative and more than slightly annoying. Over time, he had learned quickly which to be careful of. He marveled at the concept that he originally came to this village as a respected journeyman. Oh, what had changed the past few weeks, the past few months. He wondered how long he could drag his last sentence out, to turn Cleo’s slight eye widening that she couldn’t hide, where a blush would be had she not lacked blood, into a sigh of annoyance. He knew it would make her annoyed, he had received quite a scolding when he had sent a letter written entirely in Old Player, but he also knew that she loved it.

_ Sometimes, I speak of someone, spirited and seductive, stars singing softly in sage eyes. Souring corpse, but not less sophisticated. Soul of a scintillating story, someone I love. Sometimes, they guess said someone as a past lover who’s journeyed away and abandoned me. Sometimes, they pretend that you will never return to me.  _

_ I have read your letters to know that their words are but lies. You are faithful and I wait for... _

Joe bit back an inappropriate word. His quill tip had given out, he always had a tendency to press too hard, and at the state it was in, he doubted he could squeeze even an inch of life from it with careful sharpening. He would need to dig through the plucked feathers of the village chickens to find a suitable replacement. The sun was still on the horizon, if low. He stood up from his desk and carefully placed a box over his paper to let it dry. Thanking whoever was on high that the door to his hut had yet to be locked, Joe stepped outside. 

Like magic, a villager walked over to him. He tended to have a watchful eye kept on him, especially later in the day, when more of the village was inside. They feared him escaping, Joe knew. In the village, he could be monitored and kept safe from prying eyes. Beyond the smuggled letters to Cleo, and the odd poem he wished to preserve, they had a tight hold on him. 

“Where are you going?” the villager hrrmed. Joe held up his quill to the guard.

“I ran through my last quill, I can’t write without a quill,” Joe explained patiently.

The villager’s narrowed gaze of suspicion did not cease. However, they capitulated, and led Joe through the village. It was later then he had realized, the torches all lit and the iron golems prowling, looking for mobs. Their red gaze frightened Joe, ever so slightly, though he did not care to admit that. He was Joe Hills, and he did not allow himself to feel afraid. He was Joe HIlls and he kept surviving.

One thing he was grateful to the village for was their production of quills en masse for the sake of their scholars, cartographers, and calligraphers. They allowed Joe to use their pile of quills, carefully stored to keep each feather to perfection. The villager unlocked the store room for Joe, and buried their gaze into his neck as Joe carefully considered each of his options for feathers. The village only had chicken feathers. Parrot feathers tended to be a higher overall quality, but Joe’s calligraphy didn’t need that higher grade of feature. He was content with scouring the storage room for good quills, all properly treated.

Joe used to prefer large quills, with much ink that created a prettier and easier to read finish. Lately, however, spare paper had become more scarce then it had been previously. He wondered if the villagers were planning to count the paper he received to ensure that he didn’t waste any on unnecessary, or unmarketable poetry and short stories. It would be a cruel punishment, and Joe had been careful to choose smaller quills that could produce finer work, and fit on many more words. He saw three that would fit his bill, and decided to choose four more larger ones for villager assigned work. He inspected each to make sure that they would fit in his hand properly. So long as he was careful and treated them properly, these should last him at least two weeks. 

When he exited the store room, he was not surprised to find his personal guard checking it for any other items snuck. Joe waited for the villager to be finished; he certainly hadn’t taken anything beyond quills. Not that the paper, ink, dyes, and the like that were also in the store room would be much use in any escape plan.

He wondered why he hadn’t heckled the guard yet today. He stayed quiet, throughout everything. He attributed it to the importance of his letter. Cleo came first. He didn't want to be keeping bloodstains off his paper. 

The villager locked the door behind him when he went inside. No more last minute trips to grab anything he might need. Joe sighed as he sat back down on his desk. He felt a wave of exhaustion that hadn't been present before. He grabbed his drinking glass and took a deep  _ sip _ before he stretched again. He picked up one of the quills he had haphazardly strewn across his desk, as well as the small, flint knife he had been permitted to use as a sharpener. A  _ stroke _ of the blade, and he whittled it down, with another  _ stroke _ , making the small slices he needed for a masterful quill. He had carved so many, the task was mindless, and with just a few more small adjustments, he had a perfect quill. He set down the knife beside his desk, and, finally, reached up and revealed the dried paper hidden under his box. He fiddling with the paper, slightly, before dipping his quill into ink, wiping off the excess.

_ You are faithful and I wait for… _

What was he writing?

_...and I wait for your return. I wait the day we can be together, the lovers we know we are. _

It was blunt… it was sappy… but it was true.

_ I ask you for any news or stories from your side of the world. I understand that you must be vague, it would be remiss of me to say I don't have to be as well. Knowing you are all right, to me, is the greatest joy I can think of. When I look at the stars at night, I know that you are looking at those same stars, what a comfort it is, to those pieces of hope. I believe you will understand what I mean.  _

_ I remember reading about one of your children, in your last letter. Has she recovered from her cough? If it persists, I recommend trying a suspicious stew brewed with Oxeye daisy. It can have remarkable regenerative effects in lieu of a golden apple, and is a lot easier to swallow. I wish her a prompt and speedy recovery, and you well in trying to silence her coughs. Suspicious stew with tulips and poppies can help send her to sleep in a last resort scenario, though it would be little for the actual cough.  _

_ Are the other children doing alright? I'm enclosing a copy of one of the short stories that always cheered mine up. If you have a loud night that it wouldn't be able to be heard, they might enjoy it being read to them.  _

Joe wiped away a small tear he had barely noticed was forming.

_ As for you, please keep yourself safe. You cannot help the others if you yourself have been taken away. I miss you. Stay undead, and we will see each other again, even if it's only in dreams. No war lasts forever, even one against the undead. Maybe we could even raise our children together, villager and zombie, in unity. A far fetched idea, but what are we if not our own dreams? Without dreams, we crumble and fall, we lose hope. Hope for our future is all we have left, Cleo. Take away everything, and that is what remains. _

Stroke of the quill. Dip in more ink.

_ I love you, _

_ Joe Hills _

**Author's Note:**

> Might expand on this later, but I'm happy with it as a oneshot.


End file.
